


On The Memory Of Light

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 08:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22966615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: As it were, Tyelperinquar felt a strong distaste for winter. The rise and fall of Arda’s yearly breath was nothing new to its inhabitants, but he found that with the lack of yellow sun and green earth, a mood would take over him that made it difficult to create just as much as he so wished. The impasse was unbearable, the blink of winter more like a fitful nap or a thick fog over his senses, frustrating him with his mind’s poor harvest. Winter, thus, was the season of restlessness and a yearning for Yestarë.***Tyelpë is reminded who his muse is.
Relationships: Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	On The Memory Of Light

The shortening of the days had the unfortunate custom of greying Eregion’s lands. All vibrancy of summer faded to the trembling emptiness of ashen branches against the colourless sky which wept for the memory of warmth with freezing tears that speared through cloth like a thousand biting needles. A bitter wind blew down into the valley of Ost-in-Edhil, sewing the raindrops into a fine spider-lace of frost that adorned all the windows and stones. Even the lively rush of Glanduin and the chiming music of Sirannon seemed to be weary with the sharp cold.

As it were, Tyelperinquar felt a strong _distaste_ for winter. The rise and fall of Arda’s yearly breath was nothing new to its inhabitants, but he found that with the lack of yellow sun and green earth, a mood would take over him that made it difficult to create just as much as he so wished. The impasse was unbearable, the blink of winter more like a fitful nap or a thick fog over his senses, frustrating him with his mind’s poor harvest. Winter, thus, was the season of restlessness and a yearning for Yestarë.

The winter this year brought with it more snow than was usual, a burgeoning whiteness which crept down from the tallest peaks of the Hithaeglir and settled in the valleys about the city. At first he had grumbled about the twinkling flakes, thinking that it would only turn into a sort-of slush that would make the city even more bothersome to traverse as it masked the treacherous ice. But the snow had been vigorous, a velvet mantle which quieted the hie of the city not in some dull sluggishness but in a calm silvery hue which encouraged reflection— a merciful break in Tyelpë’s frustrations.

The white stone of the city was nearly identical to the absorbing snowfall, making the tallest spires seem as fragile as the crystal flakes as if shaped from the snowy land. He found the contrast between the silver glitter of the cool dunes and the deep jade of the pine trees to be rather delightful. There also he found some renewed clarity of mind from the nests of mistletoe on the bare boughs of the deciduous trees, bearing their pearls, and the scarlet berries of holly against evergreen leaves. Although it didn’t cure his creative block, Tyelpë found it a balm and he had the sudden desire to meditate on his past imaginings. Perhaps something within his old sketchbooks would kindle him?

Annatar seemed just as heartened, either because of the snowfall or the change in enthusiasm of his companion. He eagerly followed him to his private library where they nestled themselves in the western window-nook. The heavy velvet curtains were a bulwark to the cold which outspread from the glass and the polished wood of the bookcases on either side gleamed richly in the fervor of the light cast from the fireplace in front of them. Tyelpë randomly pulled an armful of the dusty leather books from a stuffed shelf and dropped them onto the table, careful not to knock the steaming teacups or the platter of cranberry teacake. The Maia raised a single brow at him as he leaned against one of the bookcase-sides, his legs crossed on the cushioned seat. He studied the mound of books over the rim of his teacup as he sipped, smiling as the elf settled next to him and gathered a blanket about his shoulders.

Tyelpë plucked a ragged volume from the pile: one of his older books. The exposed binding of its spine was slightly frayed and the supple leather was creased from being curled back in the hand— he had carried it everywhere with him when he was working on filling its pages. Although it was always his habit to carry with him his current sketchbook, this particular one was finished not too long after the founding of Ost-in-Edhil, when the many buildings and commodities of the city were still yet to be finished. As such, the book was carried with him as he had explored the muddy banks of the Sirannon and Glanduin as he made note of the region’s topography, pressed and stained with samples of the surrounding flora, and smudged with soot from the few busy forges that began the fellowship of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

“What have you got there?” Annatar asked as he placed down his teacup, peering over Tyelpë’s shoulder curiously.

He grinned broadly, running his hand along the cover. “One of the older volumes, I believe,” he replied, finding the date stamp on the back nearly faded smooth. “For the year eight-hundred or so.”

The book creaked open in protest of the centuries it was left on the shelf, its leaves flaxen with age but otherwise preserved well from brittleness. Annatar watched eagerly as he passed through the sketches: elevation maps of Eregion, designs for aqueducts and wastewater treatment, a floor plan for the main smithy, and flattened honeysuckle and primrose pressed against notes on geology and rough estimates of annual rainfall. He stopped Tyelpë sometimes, glancing at the messy sequence of concepts for Ost-in-Edhil’s device and the final confident circle around his choice, and then once again on the many pages of designs increasingly recognizable as the Doors of Durin. When they were finished, Tyelperinquar folded the book closed with sigh leaden with nostalgia.

“I was pushed so intensely by the momentum of the city’s establishment that I doubt I slept much those days,” he said softly.

Annatar searched his face carefully, his hand coming to rest gently on his shoulder after it followed the fall of a dark braid tucked behind his decorated ear.

“A devotion that shows on more than just the paper,” the Maia concluded, the confidence in his voice sending a subtle trill along Tyelperinquar’s spine. He took a sip of his tea as if to find another excuse for the tingling warmth, watching Annatar’s slender fingers dance over the pile as he searched for a book that caught his interest. He settled on one embossed with gold on the spine, a crimson ribbon tucked between the pages.

The colour drained from Tyelpë’s face as if to contrast the hue of that ribbon and he nearly spilled his tea across his lap in his haste to snatch the book from Annatar’s hand. Guilt immediately crossed him— Annatar did not deserve to be treated so rudely: he had brought over the books for them to look at, after all. Even so, he held it close against his chest, trying to think of something to say at the Maia’s concerned brow-furrow, and the vague annoyance withheld because of the concern.

“I’m sorry, it’s just. . .” he trailed off weakly, “The city was complete when I started this and I spent much of my time dwelling in the past.”

The crease of Annatar’s brow smoothed a bit, as in silent understanding and forgiveness. His eyes gleamed like honey in a way that made Tyelpë feel like he was surrounded by a warmth steeped in a pleasant dreamy sweetness. He relaxed a bit his hold on the edges of the book.

“You’ve no need to hide such things from me,” Annatar murmured, voice low.

The moment passed and Tyelperinquar smiled to chase away his troubles. He thought about it carefully for a moment, allowing his eyes to trace gently over the slight purse of Annatar’s lips which were graced in the most quiet shade of red, to sink into the charming shadows that played along his philtrum and those which settled under the plush of his lower lip. He gave him the book.

“I know,” he whispered, “I am just protective.”

Annatar took the book carefully, as one does something exceedingly delicate. His fingertips barely touched the cover as he settled against Tyelpë’s side, leaning against him as the elf placed his arm around his back and clasped his waist. The silk of Annatar’s hair tickled Tyelpë’s chin kindly as the first pages were spread like the unfolding of distant memories into present consciousness.

The first few were of an elf, grave of face with piercing eyes lit by some inward cunning, his mouth set in a slight frown made more severe by heavy shadow cast under regal cheekbones as he stood silhouetted against some bright flame. Annatar could not tell if it was Fëanor or Curufin that worked the forges in Tyelpë’s sketches and he did not ask, moving through them long enough to appreciate their emotion but not so long as to make Tyelpë uncomfortable. As he went on, the pages he turned began to have less and less of Curufinwë and more and more of the image a Noldorin woman gazing sympathetically, her hair glossy and her lips naturally upturned to an easy smile. Annatar had never seen her before, but the resemblance stole his breath.

“This is your Mother.”

He felt Tyelpë tremble against him, breathing quickening but still even in measure. It took him some moments to answer.

“Most say I am rather in the likeness of my Father.”

The Maia didn’t pull away to look at his face but kissed the uncovered skin at the hollow of his throat, lingering there against his pulse. He bowed his head after a moment, pressing his nose into the warmth and inhaling the faint clean smell of soap and the fainter, unnamable smell that can only be associated uniquely with a person.

“You have her bearing, I think, which speaks well enough about kinship,” Annatar hummed in explanation, kissing him once more before settling back against him to turn the pages. The woman smiled endearingly, hair tied up messily as she worked over a wooden press, rounding the spine of a book block.

“She is a bookbinder, then?”

Tyelpë smiled with a grateful gladness into his hair, brushing his lips against a curl. “The best in Aman— one of the best calligraphers too.”

Annatar chuckled lightly to himself, expecting nothing less from the parent of Tyelperinquar and the tree of Finwë. He turned the pages: landscapes he recognized as once belonging to Beleriand, architecture he supposed was from Nargothrond, and the fallen heraldic devices of the First Age, among them the proud Star of Fëanor carried on by one last heir. He did not linger on the wild sketches of Celegorm leaning against his mutt and it was difficult to stay unaffected at the radiant portraits of Finrod. The pages he turned were soon thankfully left blank, the book having ended before it was complete.

“Untouched pages?” he teased, concealing his unsettled thoughts and sitting up. “How unlike you!”

Tyelperinquar’s eyes glittered like polished mithril. He felt lightened, at once relieved that the sketches had run out and desiring to share more with him. Those drawings had been nothing short of a part of him, his memories made tangible. Sharing them was exhausting in the way intimate conversations were, having allowed a glimpse of oneself to shine through the flesh to make oneself vulnerable. Annatar’s careful study of them made it all the more exhausting but he did not find he regretted it: there was no fear in him that he would be somehow ridiculed or misjudged.

“I wanted to start fresh.” The last sketch had been done in the year 1202, but he kept that to himself and Annatar only eyed him in suspicion as he selected a book that he knew would have some of his best designs, one that had been started not long after Annatar’s arrival in the year 1200.

It was bound to a plain tawny leather, lighter than the others, its stuffed and wrinkled pages held closed by a metal clasp. The pages were decorated with geometric shapes outlined by mathematical equations, jewelry designs, rumors of constellations behind observations of the shape of bird wings, and many lines tracing rays of light and expanding on optical theories. Eccentric inventions were given more loving detail: prosthetic limbs with fingers that could be moved to grasp, an improvement on the alcohol-and-water thermometer using mercury, the prototype of a water pump, and a scratched-out drawing of an aerial screw. They paused on the pages that were a rough draft of his now published book “On the Correction of the Vision of the Edain with Lenses” and the scribblings for an unfinished project “On the Binding of Immaterial to Material.”

By the time they were finished with the majority of the pile of thick volumes, the cranberry teacakes were naught but crumbs and they were curled up closely, the day passing them by comfortably as it was marked only by the shortening of the candles and the breaks they took to poke at the wood in the hearth, stirring the embers back to long streams of fire. Tyelpë stretched his legs, sticking them out from window seat and closing his eyes peacefully as Annatar chose the next volume. Looking over his old works had reminded him the progress he had made in his research and how he had improved in his craft, in addition to some interesting ideas he had forgotten about.

The Maia settled against him and the cushions again, body always nearly feverish in heat, radiating from his flesh pleasantly. Tyelpë imagined the shape of his hips and shoulders based on their pressure against his body, the way the fall of his copper hair would look based on the feathery brushes against his own skin. He exhaled, long and slow and content, opening his eyes as if to confirm those shapes that settled against his own. He caressed him lovingly with his regard, desiring now to trace those shapes with his lips. His eyes followed the elegant slope of his neck down along the lithe curve of his arm, those skillful hands which opened now the hardcover of the next book.

The next book! For the second time that day Tyelperinquar felt the blood drain from his face and he cursed himself under his breath. The cover was of a fine grey cloth embroidered in thin golden thread small patterns of ivy. He had forgotten of this particular one, not out of lack of fondness, but because it was quickly finished and continued in other books which he kept elsewhere. This being the first of those personal editions, he had placed it in his library and never retrieved it to properly place it among the series of his numerous others. He felt suddenly rather unbearably hot and he was sure his face was recovering from the lack of blood with a flush of vigorous pink.

Annatar paused, startled by the sudden sharp uprighting of his position, his hand poised to flip the cover.

“Another collection from the past?”

Valar help him! The points of their contact that he had just been admiring now seemed to mock him. How many times had he studied those shapes, the fine lines of bone under satin? The hair that fell across the Maia’s face coiled teasingly in the amber light and the lashes goaded him. He knew he looked like a fool sitting there with his mouth open as he sputtered, his face as scarlet as holly berries. There was no way out of this trapping of his own making— why had he not been more careful, selecting the books rather than shoveling them into his arms and dumping them on the table? It was his comeuppance, he supposed, for not organizing his shelves like Annatar so often harried him.

_‘I shall not hear the end of it,’_ he thought, but what he said, resigned to his fate, was: “You mustn’t judge me too harshly!”

The sketches began as life drawings— studies of a single subject as he worked, as he wrote, as he lectured the apprentices. The drawings were at first light, as if unsure in stroke and skill, becoming increasingly more confident or more desperate to get out onto the paper. Some seemed from memory, having only the impression of form. Others were from careful observation of the meeting of light and shadow across the planes of the face, a focus on the soft texture of lips and the depth of the expression in the eyes. As Annatar turned the pages a thrill branched through him not unlike the effect of alcohol, plucking fondly at his nerves and settling low and downy-soft in his chest. He held his breath as he turned the many pages adorned with shapes suggestive of a neck meeting the shoulder, or the hills and dales of an outstretched leg with pointed toes, or the press of shoulder blades under flesh scattered with a familiar pattern of freckles.

More and more, Annatar became aware of the sketches of hands, long fingers and a slender palm. Relaxed, fingers curled, grasping a hammer or holding finely an engraving tool— it was a diligent study of form, of the interaction between the bones and their ligaments, the muscles that pulled them and the subtle veins under the skin. He suddenly could not stop himself from giggling like a maid at the careful attentions the artist so clearly took to translate what he saw onto the paper. He could feel Tyelpë tremble sweetly for the timbre of that laughter.

“I did not know you fancied my hands so much,” Annatar said slyly, keeping his voice low for the spike that shuddered through Tyelpë’s heart-rhythm, and even more for his flustered gasp as he scrambled for words.

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat, “Hands are expressive: they are our greatest tools, a way of adapting our thoughts into action.”

Annatar pressed the back of his hand against his mouth as if to cover modestly the laugher that still poured from his lips, noticing with a deepening of the tincture of his eyes the way Tyelpë paused at that action.

“Yet all of these are mine, are they not, _silver fist_? What of other hands?” His smile was infuriatingly amused, and Tyelperinquar wanted to kiss it away until his lips were swollen.

“Yours come closest to achieving the union of vision to matter. Why should I not make a study of the way they move?”

“Academic interest, I understand,” Annatar pronounced solemnly, smile lingering on his lips as he turned the next page.

There were sketches of locks of hair glimmering with embers, one particular curl singled out with postulations about its degree of rotation and the length of the spiral. There were many profiles of his face with some pages filled with the same collection of lines and angles that suggested a nose or the parting of lips or the creases about his eyes. A spread was dedicated to the pointed shell of his ear, one page unadorned and the other with his various piercings and accustomed jewelry in place, and the freckle that was on the curve of his jawline where is met the flesh of his ear. There were others still that detailed his eyes, the glow of them on his cheeks, the molten irises of limpid gold.

The larger ones made them both pause. The first that they came upon was of Annatar sleeping, the low lighting of the room sending dramatic shadow along the messy linen of the bed, along the dips of his curled form nestled within and the hair that spread like a fan of fire about him. The Maia gasped, thrumming with both the faithfulness of Tyelpë’s drawing and the keen indulgence of his pride to have been the object of such laborious attentions— it pleased him greatly indeed to have this confession of how preoccupied his Beloved’s mind was on him.

“If you don’t feel comfortable with any of these,” Tyelpë said, the rumbling of his chest alluringly prickling to the Maia’s senses. “I can burn them.”

“No!”

His response was too quick, too eager perhaps. Tyelperinquar inhaled sharply, pressing himself closer to better kiss that freckle near his ear that he had so meticulously included in his sketches, sending a cool rippling frisson down along his neck. Had that spot always been so sensitive?

“Good,” Tyelpë murmured, his voice suffused with a rougher tone. “If memory serves, the next one is more. . . thorough.”

He turned the page, aware that Tyelpë did not look with him but watched his reaction intently, drinking greedily the slightest changes in his features. Annatar knew now with an overwhelming certainty that he could read every one of his movements. This new knowledge— that every one of his finest movements and expressions had been noted through all the years— this knowledge did not make him angry or fearful like he had imagined it would. The Maia purred, a hum from his throat and lips that Tyelpë knew meant he was utterly _pleased._ Affection fluttered untamed in his chest and he could not help but press fervent little kisses along his temple as he looked down at the page.

There was something freeing about being completely exposed for someone, vulnerable and open to their judgement. But this uncovering was private, intimate, and without fear. Knowing that Tyelpë had drawn this only from his memory and that it was meant only for him to look back on was different. The lines and shadow that were sketches was no longer simply his own body, but his body as beheld by the one who loved him. The artist who in his mania had to release the memory from his mind onto the paper to find relief from the beauty he could not lock in his head. There was no better declaration of unutterable adoration, of worship, than these pages; it was among the highest transcendence of emotion into the physical.

Annatar shuddered, turning the book lengthwise. In ink his head was tipped back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded and aglow with the ardor of the captured moment, sending muted light along the high arches of his darkened cheeks and glistening on the moisture of his lips which were parted and swollen. His hair tangled and spread out in coruscating waves over his chest and the arms that rested above his head, the hands worked with loving detail as they pressed gently into the cushions. The strained line of his waist and hips gave the impression of breathlessness, the faint hatchings of the ink indicating the bitten bruises that littered his neck, over his hardened nipples, and down across the press of ribs to the inside of his tense thighs. Not a mark or dip was misplaced, not a line nor a shadow was without consideration of its effect, its purpose in the overall composition.

He moaned softly— at the detail of his feet, of the firmness of his calves, at the avenue of shadow that led between his legs and the quill strokes limning his own desperate erection. It was as if he were Tyelpë himself, remembering their lovemaking from the discerning grey of his eyes. Few things have ever vanquished the Maia, rendering him speechless. Tyelpë felt tears gather in his eyes as he watched him, as his thoughts whirred— how foolish he had been! To think that he needed to go shifting through the past when all he could ever need was right in his very arms— the winter must have dulled his thoughts indeed!

“You are my muse, Anna.”

He took hold of Annatar’s trembling hand and kissed the knuckles, as was his habit. His continued whispers were vehement.

“I have always been enamored with your light. Light as experienced when it is emitted from your eyes, light when it caresses your form and pours into the hills and valleys of your skin. The lines of your body are graced so subtlety by the light, reflections colouring it and changing the tone so minutely. Not only is it a challenge to show the depth and weight of your presence, the three-dimensions into two. . . but it is my supreme torment to capture the quality, the softness of your skin and the little facets of your lips. The glossiness of the oil on your parted thighs, the depths of your irises thinned with the dilation of your pupils, the exceedingly precise structure of your hands so unconscious of their conveyance of grace.”

Annatar turned to him. He was weeping, though he scarcely noticed.

“The courtship between the immaterial and material. . . of light and the translation of thought into matter.”

Annatar kissed him and the warmth and vibrancy of spring returned to Tyelperinquar's memory in the cold of winter.

**Author's Note:**

> When your boyfriend draws such a good lewd of you that you cry :'D  
> Edit: Seriously can't believe I forgot to mention that the theme of light/thought and binding it to matter was inspired by "These Gifts That You Have Given Me" by the outstanding writer thearrogantemu. This is seriously one of the best fan fictions I have ever read, along with "In Full Measure I Return To You." I am at a loss of words for how utterly perfect that piece of literature is. If you haven't read it yet you are missing out big time.  
> This work was also inspired by Leonardo da Vinci's sketches, of which hints can be found in Tyelpë's own. I can imagine him as a similar polymath in Tolkien's world, along with his grandfather. But the designs for warfare and anatomical dissections are missing, as I can't see Tyelpë dwelling on those things.  
> Don't ask what kind of power keeps his books from crumbing: surely the elves would have need of such "magical" preservation!  
> Would love to hear what you think <3 I am addicted to writing these two now.  
> ***


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